


An Apology is Forthcoming

by thequeenmeera



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Please Don't Hate Me, Post-War for the Dawn, Rated mature because the first half is dark, Reunions, Suicide Attempt, if you're happy and you know it don't read this, post-season 8, this contains all the depressing material i left out of earlier works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 03:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18379634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeenmeera/pseuds/thequeenmeera
Summary: Bran makes a drastic decision and Meera returns to Winterfell





	An Apology is Forthcoming

**Author's Note:**

> Hey I'm not kidding about the warning if you're triggered by suicide, depression, or related material this may not be for you.
> 
> On another note I wanted to come up with a better title but I couldn't.

Dragonglass would do. It was so much sharper than the dull little knife he used to cut meat at meals and easier to steal when there was a great pile on the table before him. Bran slipped a small shard of it into a pocket in his inner coat while everyone else was caught up making battle plans. They did not concern or involve him.

Once he had his weapon Bran felt almost cheerful, certainly relaxed. His ordeal was nearly over; only a matter of time now. He waited until after the war. He had wanted to finish the deed as soon as he'd gotten his hands on the weapon but he waited. Not long after it was all finished and most of the Southron armies had dispersed that Bran decided to go without his supper, telling the guards to take him to the godswood rather than to the hall where the rest of the court and soldiers were gathered. It was not so unusual for him to skip meals in favor of visiting the godswood or brooding in his chambers.

The godswood was cold and filled with snow, mostly untouched besides the well-trodden path to the heart tree. Bran commanded the guardsmen to leave him which they did gladly for it was cold, far colder than it would be had it been snowing. Instead the skies were clear with only a few wispy clouds blocking the view of the stars that glittered like shards of ice. Bran sucked down the cold air and, with some careful maneuvering with the low branches of the tree, managed to free himself from his chair and lower himself to the ground. He finally settled into position, leaning against the tree for support though he was more laying than sitting. _I’ll go to my rest on a bed of snow then_. There was something almost enchanting about the idea, dark as it was. It was the sort of thought that Sansa would have reveled in when they were younger. She would have wept and called it romantic even with the lack of kissing, or tragic. He might have liked it as well when he was still a boy. Truth be told there was still some part of him that liked the concept, that part was far distant from him though.

He drew out the glassy black shard and swallowed the fear that rose with it. It would be harder to cut his own wrists than freezing, falling, or many of the other ideas he had mulled over but it was the only possible option. As the shadow of death hovered near him he could hear, somewhere in his mind, a Karstark – he could not remember which one now – saying to his brother that “must be broken inside as well as out. Too craven to take his own life.”

Bran held the shard in position over his exposed wrist and braced himself, “Not craven” he growled to the ghosts and cut.

The wolves began to howl.

**************************

It had been Sansa who found him, just minutes after he’d done it. Come to take him to supper because they were all worried about him, how he hardly ate anymore. When she found him he was lying before the heart tree, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands resting in the snow, palms up. The blood had gotten all over his arms as if he’d raised them to examine the cuts. It had pooled in his palms and run out in twin streams, cutting a line of red in the snow before the heart tree. Later, when dawn broke and they were able to see their brother’s face bathed in sunlight they saw streaks of blood there as well, as if he’d wiped his face with bloody hands.

The cuts had been deep and clean, the maester said that clean was better. It made it easier for him to make the careful stitches, sealing the wounds. Bran slept a drugged sleep. Summer lay over his boy’s lap, dwarfing him, occasionally shifting and licking his face clean. Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon all sat watch the first night and day until they were too tired to keep it up. The kingdom still needed a ruler and Jon would not be allowed to sit in vigil forever. The girls were called away to see to the running of the castle, the preparations for war or exodus. Rickon remained the longest before he fell asleep, laying out on the end of his brother’s bed. They all let him stay there; Osha had not raised him to be a proper lord but she had raised him to be a good brother.

It was on the second day that the infection set in. There should not have been infection. The blade had not been dirty, the wounds had been cleaned well and well cared for but they got infected anyway. Bran began to wake every few hours once the fever had taken hold. He’d had dreadful nightmares since he fell but they had only gotten worse once he returned home. The fever exacerbated them to the point that Bran woke often, weeping or out of breath. When he could speak he was more like to ask for a knife, to beg for mercy. His requests were of course refused.

**************************

Winterfell was crowded, far more so than Meera had ever seen it. Once a guardsman had helped her down from her horse she was jostled and bumped by the crowd as she followed her father to the king’s solar. The room was spacious, filled with a long table. The king himself sat at the end of it, surrounded by the light from the roaring fire in the hearth behind him. The dragon queen sat at one hand and a small man on the other hand who Meera assumed must be Tyrion Lannister. She took a seat next to her father and stayed quiet for most of the meeting.

There were questions about the Neck’s prosperity, how they had fared during the wars of the last several years. The meeting had dragged on for hours for the lord of the Neck had not been to Winterfell in many years and the king had an interest in his father – or uncle’s – oldest friend. Especially when that friend was the lord of a region the rest of Westeros, even their fellow northmen, knew so little about. Her father spent the better part of an hour describing their farming and hunting techniques at the request of the Lord of Lannister. The king was most interested in the construction of Greywater Watch, her father was particularly vague in his explanation. The mystery surrounding their home was carefully cultivated and maintaining it kept their family safe.

The meeting dragged on and they were brought supper as night sank in for true. A servant passed through the room to quietly close the shutters and add logs to the fire.

Some time later Meera was startled when the king addressed her, “Pardon?” she asked him.

He gave her a grim sort of smile, he looked tired she noticed now, “Could you leave us, my lady? I have a matter of import to discuss with your father – alone.”

She considered telling him that she already knew what he wanted to discuss but she also knew that his mother might be a sensitive topic and she had no wish to remain cloistered in that room any longer so she took her leave. The dragon queen caught her arm before she was able to go more than a few steps. “My lady, may I have a word?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The queen was a small woman, hardly taller than Meera was. Meera had been struck by how pale the woman’s shoulder-length hair was as it resembled fresh snow more than it did summer water-lilies. And now that they were close Meera could see that the queen’s eyes were violet. She certainly was of Valyrian blood.

They waited until Lord Tyrion was hopefully out of earshot then the queen leaned in close and said “Jon’s – er – sisters told me that you were Bran’s companion when he was in exile?”

It was several long moments before Meera had gathered her thoughts enough to speak. She had not known what the queen might want of her but she certainly hadn’t expected Bran to figure in the conversation. She had pushed all thoughts of her friend out of her mind. And this woman who she did not know, who was a queen with armies and responsibilities, knew who Meera was? Had even talked about Meera with Bran’s sisters who Meera hadn’t been sure even noticed her before she left. “My lady?” the queen prodded.

“Yes. I was,” she said at last.

The queen nodded quickly, “I heard that you did not part with him on the best of terms but he’s ill, very ill, and sometimes when he wakes up he asks for you.” She studied Meera’s face for a few moments before she continued, “We’re not sure if he even understands what he’s saying but I thought, or I hoped, that he might… respond to you.”

Meera felt ill herself. Bran was not a strong man after all and as angry as she was with him she was not so cruel she would wish him this. “How ill is he?” she asked tentatively, “and do you know what with?”

The queen hesitated for a moment before answering. “He was alone in the godswood just over a week ago… he cut his own wrists. He’s only alive because Sansa went to check on him. The wounds are infected.”

Meera allowed the queen to lead her by the arm towards Bran’s chambers. She was not very surprised but the thought of Bran hurting himself made her feel like she’d been hit in the gut.

Bran was asleep when they reached the bedchamber; he looked small and fragile as a songbird under the furs and Summer’s bulk curled protectively over his man. Rickon was curled in a chair on the opposing side of the bed, he looked up when the women entered and rushed to catch Meera in an embrace. He was taller than she was now. “Has he woken recently?” the queen asked him from over Meera’s shoulder.

“I woke him to feed him supper, he was awful about it.”

Rickon let go of Meera and the three of them stood together, unsure of how to proceed before the queen motioned to Rickon “You can go to bed if you wish. We’ll watch over him.”

Bran shifted and sighed in his sleep. Now that she was closer Meera could see how the shadows beneath his eyes had grown darker. Hair stuck to forehead and his cheeks looked hollow, almost skeletal. Bran had been thin as long as Meera had known him; he’d been too thin when they’d gotten back behind the Wall and he had gained none of the weight he needed. _How is he still alive?_ Meera had to wonder.

Meera was led to a chair on the other side of the bed, close to the fire which the queen added logs to before sitting down herself. They were quiet for some time, watching Bran sleep. Meera could not think of what to say and Bran… “Is this my fault?” Meera whispered her question, not hoping for an answer.

“What?” The queen asked.

Meera startled and looked at her companion, “Oh, forgive me Your Grace –”

“– You may call me Daenerys.”

“Daenerys then.” Meera sighed and turned back to Bran, “I was Bran’s companion for years. I looked after him and when he was upset it was me he spoke to if he spoke to anyone. I just wonder if I’d been here perhaps he wouldn’t have done this.”

“We all feel that way Meera. May I call you Meera?” Daenerys waited for Meera’s consent before she continued, “If he’d never been left alone he wouldn’t have been able to get so far but the problem is that Bran was in such a state to try ending his own life.”

“And he hasn’t spoken to anyone?”

Daenerys shook her head, “Mostly what he says is ‘No’ while he tries to refuse food or stop the Maester from changing the bandages.”

**************************

The last thing Bran had seen before the darkness took him was the clear, bright stars in the winter sky. He’d liked that, he’d always liked the stars. But instead of dying he’d woken again with stabbing pains in his wrists from the Maester stitching them back together and what sounded like Sansa crying. He did not keep track of the many times he woke from nightmares or when he was shaken awake to be fed but at last he woke quietly. Summer’s large head was resting on his chest and there was a faint light from the fire but at last waking did not feel so terrible. Perhaps because Summer was there and he hadn’t been before.

Bran opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly to see Summer’s large wet nose hovering just inches from his face. Bran closed his eyes again and tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. He tried and failed to stop the subsequent coughs and was unable to move his hands to cover his mouth. Bran was cold and weak and tired. His wrists throbbed beneath the tight bandages. A small, cool hand fell on his forehead, brushing the damp hair from his face. Soothed, he turned his head with the intention of returning to sleep but instead he heard a familiar voice commanding Summer to “Get off now!” and then he was being pulled up and back; he leaned against the pillows trying to return to sleep but there was a cup of cold water pushed against his lips.

Meera held the cup while he drained it. Bran was still too weak to say no. No he did not want water because it would make him live. Worse, if he drank he’d have to relieve himself soon and he could not get out of bed. Was he to soil it? Was he to be forced to use a bedpan? Would someone carry him to the privy? Bran couldn’t decide which was the worst option and he couldn’t remember which he’d been forced to use so far, he’d been so tired. Finally, when he’d finished the third cup of water Bran managed to pull back and refuse the fourth, “No more. Please no” he spluttered.

“Alright, but you have to eat now” Meera said as she set the cup aside and pulled the tray of food forward.

He shook his head weakly, “I’m not hungry.” His stomach betrayed him, loudly.

Meera allowed herself a smirk and set about breaking the bread into chunks for Bran and pushing each piece against his lips for him to eat. He tried to move his arms but he was still weak, and the bandages were wrapped tight about his wrists making it impossible to bend them. Feeding himself would be hard, it was easy to let Meera push bread and spoonfuls of broth into his mouth. “You really should stop lying,” she said as he swallowed the last spoonful of cooling broth. “You’re hungry and tired and sick and too damn proud to admit to being human.”

He grunted and sunk back into the pillows, he was almost asleep when a question occurred to him. Bran shook himself and looked up at his friend, “What are you doing here Meera?” he asked.

She shrugged a little and rose to add logs to the fire, not answering until she’d sat back in the chair at his bedside. “We came to Winterfell for the war, and to swear fealty. The queen brought me here the night we arrived and I don’t have anything else to do. Your family does and someone had to watch you so here I am.” Under closer scrutiny she looked better than she had when he’d last seen her. She was clean and the hollow spaces of her cheeks had filled out some. She wore new clothes of dark, studded leather and green wool. But she did not appear to be happy. Bran supposed that was the effect of having to look after him once again, especially in light of how he’d treated her when she left.

“I don’t need to be watched” he told her, hoping it would work. He didn’t have a knife and it wasn’t as if he could get out of his bed.

“You cut your own wrists and won’t eat without being forced of course you need to be watched.”

“Then just let me die.”

Bran’s cheek stung from the slap. “Don’t you ever say that again!”

“But wouldn’t you prefer it if I died? It would be better for everyone that way.”

“How could you say that?” She sounded close to tears and guilt twisted Bran’s gut.

He kept his eyes on the roof “It’s true though, it would be better if I was dead.”

Instead of slapping him again Meera pushed the hair back from Bran’s face and gripped his shoulder. “Why did you do it?”

Bran closed his eyes, “I can’t live anymore.”

“Well you’re doing it aren’t you? You’re living right now so _can’t_ seems a strong word.”

He grumbled to himself and sighed, “It hurts too much.”

“What does?”

“Living.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I’ve done so much… terrible things.” Bran closed his eyes tight so he wouldn’t have to look at Meera. She didn’t need to be there, asking him things, watching over him. She should be home and safe. “I can’t do anything for myself. I’m so large now – it makes privacy near impossible and I just want to be left _alone_. But I can’t be because soon enough I’ll have to move to a different room, up or down stairs. Dressing takes an hour without help and I can forget about bathing. Have you ever had to be stripped and lifted in and out of a bath? I’m lucky with the chair I don’t need someone to take me to the privy. And then there’s the staring and the whispers. When I was young I was able to ignore it all; there was still some small part of me that hoped it would have an end but I’m old enough now to understand that it won’t.”

“So you wanted to die because you’re self-conscious?” Meera shoved another log onto the fire.

He took a moment to answer, “No.”

“Then why? You said you’ve done terrible things – like what you did to Hodor, is that the reason?”

“Most of it.”

“And the rest?”

Bran breathed in deeply, trying to find courage buried somewhere deep in his mind. “I’m not wanted.”

Bran was almost expecting another slap but instead Meera put a hand on his shoulder, “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t think it. I know. My family – they all expect me to be someone I haven’t been since before I fell. All I do or say only serves to frighten them or make them sad.”

Meera had nothing to say to that; it was true for her too.

“None of them stayed after I fell. When I woke up I was alone except for Summer. Robb was at Winterfell though, he came just after I woke and Rickon was here of course. But Robb left and I sent Rickon away and it’s not as if being around me is going to help him or bring him comfort now.”

“Rickon’s here now.”

“I know but – you know I’ve changed since we left here. And Rickon doesn’t need me.” Bran paused to draw in a long and shaky breath. When he spoke again he whispered, “I know I can’t blame Jon and the girls for leaving. My father was needed in King’s Landing and from what I understand he didn’t have much choice and he couldn’t just leave the girls here when they were supposed to go with him and everyone thought I was going to die anyway. I should have. And Jon had to go to the Wall. Robb had to go to war.” But there was still someone missing from this count. “But my mother… she left too. After I fell my own mother didn’t want me anymore.”

Meera took her time replying, she wasn’t sure if he meant for her to say anything but it was the worst thing he could think to say and, she thought, it must be one of those fears he had kept secret for so long. “I don’t think she stopped loving you Bran” was all she could think to say.

“She left. She didn’t even wait for me to wake.”

“Do you know if she ever said anything or why she left? Surely she couldn’t have left you and Rickon without a good reason.”

“She had her reasons but she still left and she never came back.”

“So all this is because you think your mother didn’t love you.”

“It’s everything Meera. I’m _tired_. I’m tired of needing to be strong and having to learn everything the Crow wanted me to learn and I told you, I _told_ you I remember what it felt like to be Brandon Stark. What I didn’t tell you was that it’s awful. I’m broken, inside and out.” He trailed off, unable to think of how else it felt. Like there were shards of glass trapped between his ribs.

Meera sat for a few moments, taking it all in. She stood and paced to one of the windows, away from him, opened the shutters and studied the snow that swirled in the darkness before turning back towards Bran. “You’re tired? I’m the one who dragged you across the far north – on my own – without help or hope. I’m the one who had to put up with your brooding for all those years. I’m the one who cut your hair, mended your clothes, helped you wash and dress and piss and eat. I fed you and clothed you and carried you and you just laid there! As if you just expected it to happen and there wasn’t effort going into that. I lost my brother and my hope and was stuck in that gods damned cave with nothing to do but stare into the darkness and occasionally to look for what little food there was to be found. And what did I get out of it? Your empty thanks? Is that all I’m worth to you?”

“Meera –”

“– Don’t. I don’t want to hear whatever your explanations are. I’ve had enough of them. I’ve had enough of forgiving you just because I love you.”

“You love me?” It was rather dark in the bedchamber and Meera could not see Bran’s face well enough to know what he thought but his voice sounded shocked and sad.

Meera sighed and shook her head “I suppose I did, once.”

Bran sunk further into the furs and Meera heard him breathe in, start to say something only the door opened and Arya burst in, a guard trailing behind her. “Is everything alright? We heard shouting.” Bran shook his head and tried to move the furs closer to his chin, shivering.

“It was only me,” Meera said. “I’m tired, I should go to bed. Can someone else look after him?” She hurried past Arya and towards her own bedchamber. She’d imagined what she’d say to Bran so many times in the last several months, ever since she left Winterfell.

One of the servants had put warming pans between the sheets for her. It felt so good to crawl into a good, soft, warm bed after years of sleeping on the ground and Meera would have to admit that the featherbeds at Winterfell were far softer than the mats they used at Greywater.

Meera laid in her bed thinking over what she’d said to Bran and what he’d told her. She _was_ angry with him and she could not find all the words she needed to make him understand why and how much the resentment had eaten at her over the years. She’d always tried to be forgiving and kind, it hadn’t been purely by Bran’s designs that they’d gone to that cave and after they’d arrived they hadn’t been able to leave until disaster struck. And it wasn’t his fault she’d been stuck with nothing to do as if she was a horse that could be left to graze or entertain itself. She had often wished though, that she’d been able to bring books, some sort of game, anything to relieve the boredom.

She also knew that Bran hadn’t intended to offend her, for the most part. Of course he’d given her and Hodor and everyone who’d helped him little thanks; if he needed help to do everything then at some point his constant thank yous would have lost their meaning. Perhaps he’d been trying to be kind that day she’d left. She hadn’t asked and she wasn’t sure if it mattered all that much.

**************************

It was near a fortnight before she returned to Bran’s bedside, only because he’d requested an audience with her. Despite his best efforts his health was improving rapidly. He was sitting up against the pillows, running his fingers through Summer’s thick fur. The direwolf was clearly enjoying the attention; as Bran moved to scratching around the wolf’s ears Summer turned his head, leaning towards his man and his tail thumped hard against the post. “Don’t you think he’s a little big for that bed?” Meera asked Bran as a greeting.

“I’m terrified it’s going to break every time he gets on it but it’s held so far.” Bran turned his attention to Meera, “Thank you for coming to see me, I know it’s not something you want.”

Meera took a deep breath and kept her arms folded across her chest, “If I’m honest I’m not sure what I want concerning you Bran.”

“I believe an apology might be something you want,” he waited a moment before he continued, “I am sorry Meera. I’m sorry for being cold when you left, and for the months before when I was just as bad. And for the years you spent stuck in that cave with me. I’m just sorry. Can you forgive me for being an ass?”

“I suppose.”

“Good,” Bran gave her a small smile. “Now that we’re friends again, I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing since you got away from me.”

Meera pulled a chair to his bed and started talking.

**************************

Meera had remained at Winterfell when her father left. He’d spent many hours locked in council with the king since they’d arrived and was leaving with new mandates to enact. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d stayed. Part of her had wished to go home but home wouldn’t be going too far, the bogs moved slowly. She’d find it easily enough when she returned. What Meera did know was that Bran was her friend again and it was good to sit and talk together by the fire in the great hall with the direwolves lounging about their feet. And it was even better to push him along the newly paved pathways in the godswood. There were flowers appearing amongst the slowly greening trees, bright spots amongst the trunks and the underbrush. The air smelled clean and the sun was almost warm on their faces.

A few days after her father left, when Meera was debating when she ought to leave that Bran got up the courage to engage Meera in a single, trembling kiss. “Will you stay with me?” he asked, “I promise I won’t be cold anymore. I won’t ever ignore you. Just, please don’t leave.”

Meera stared at Bran in amazement at his audacity for several long moments. Slowly, she pulled his hands towards hers so she could run her fingers along the thick scars that ran across his wrists. “I’ll stay now, but I won’t promise you anything Bran. At least not yet.”

“I can accept that.”

“Good.” Then Meera leaned over, cupped Bran’s face in her hands and kissed him back.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think anyone will have enjoyed this particularly but I hope you don't hate it!  
> I wasn't going to end on such a good note originally but my little shipper heart took over.


End file.
